


Sordino

by great-pan-is-dead (TheCrimsonDream)



Category: Vampire Chronicles - All Media Types, Vampire Chronicles - Anne Rice
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M, Music, POV First Person, Reflection, violin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-14
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-05-20 11:03:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6003391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCrimsonDream/pseuds/great-pan-is-dead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It came to me among the company of beating rain that the saddest music is saddest on a lone violin.<br/>Despite all odds of character, there he was, playing after so many years, in a sadness; alone.<br/>-<br/>Louis POV on Lestat, bit of kind of sad mush.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sordino

It came to me among the company of beating rain that the saddest music is saddest on a lone violin.

It is not alike other instruments when played alone; brass will still echo so bravely, wood become a widow to the air, keys chimed in time retain their courage. Violins joined in their mourning harmonies are communal; cradling each other's sound; together. In joy they become a harmony all crying out happiness into whatever they may face. It is to proudly shine in ecstasy when joyous and solo. Once heard in unison, a solitary violin is the loneliest sound to ears.  
A grieving note is alone and bereaved, strings never to find the plights of others.  


It was some time after this particular brooding that I watched him, captivated, drawing notes unbearably gently as he danced languidly round that empty room. I had silently moved through the house I had been absent from for weeks to find it dark, and he in a room with the furniture carelessly pushed to the walls, all windows and curtains open to have the night flood in, not a single light lit. A mane of soft curls glittered gold and flaxen in the moonlight that coddled him, showing his skin pale and unfed. He was curiously unkempt, crumpled shirt and trousers, tracing round the floor barefoot. I could say not a word, for I found none. To let myself be known to him would be to shatter a pane of ice, encased around him and the vacant air he twined with.

He and nonchalance did not often see each other side by side under eyes, but there they were; companions.

 

I knew no language of music; nor had I ever, and I still did not now, but I hung onto every sound, so alone he was in all of those lingering moments. It raised a terrible guilt in me that I was unfamiliar with; for leaving him so long without a word or aim. It was a somber that was not my own, and I did not understand, but had paid contribution to.

It was not beautiful, or well played, but it was not played as though he did not know how. His brows furrowed a little as if trying to recall what his hands might summon of the instrument; each note was deliberate and searching for the next.  Crude, but not clumsy.  
And I wondered, how in all the world, he had came with the impulse to procure himself a violin and to draw notes from it; after Nicolas, playing for Akasha- many words poured into pages I had read that he then didn’t speak of. I wondered how much the near death at Enkil’s hands was consuming his mind in every sound.

 

It had taken me too long to realise; but not too late, that the closest thing I had felt to the sun after centuries of cold was his platinum eyes alight on me, but they didn’t shine now.  
And I wanted them to, as pale eyes were heavy to the floor touched by moonlight, and made motion to join him in his gentle swaying around the room. I thought of how he’d likely snap out of his peace; perhaps shout, demand where I’d been, or throw complaints at how long I’d been gone. That didn’t matter, I’d try to avoid an argument, and it was more commonplace, reassuring, to see him in a temper than a brood. But Lestat came to an abrupt silence when I stepped out of the shadows and into his light, as though before he had been too absorbed in his whims to make note of me. He brought his head up swiftly, and as a thousand words fought for confusion in my throat, a love fierce in my chest that was determined to prevail, a sky of stars burned in his once sad eyes to welcome me home.  


End file.
